Page 9 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Nine

Alice

Humans are not that complex.

We’re all in search of pleasure.

Eight Years Earlier …

Nothing was off the table in the imaginary world I’d created.

Wine for breakfast.

Chocolate for lunch.

Three o’clock naps.

Sex with strangers.

It wasn’t like the world would end—because it already had.

I pan seared a ribeye at nine in the evening with tongs in my right hand, an open bottle of wine in my left, and Ella Fitzgerald singing “I’ve Got A Crush On You.

” While I twirled in a circle, something moved outside.

Through the French doors, my gaze locked with Murphy’s as he picked up Palmer on his way from the garage to his stairs under the soft glow of the string lights.

I set my wine on the counter and opened the door. “Hungry?”

He stroked the cat’s back several times before setting him on the ground. “It’s late.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Is the music too loud?”

“No. I’m implying I’ve already had dinner.”

I snapped the tongs at him. “I’m not asking if you’ve had dinner. I’m asking if you’re hungry.”

“I’m good.”

“Of course you’re good, but I make a mean steak that’s better than good.”

Murphy offered a shy grin as he tucked his chin and rubbed the back of his neck. Did I make him nervous?

“I need to—” he began.

“Wash your hair?”

He glanced up with a goofy grin.

“Just come inside while you think up a better excuse than that.” I waved toward the door. “I need to flip and baste my perfect steak.” As I turned the sizzling steak, Murphy stepped inside, closing the door behind him, but he didn’t go any farther.

“Remove your shoes. House rules,” I said.

“Unless you’re not staying because you need to wash your hair.

And I would totally understand because you have great hair.

It’s thick and the perfect amount of messy.

” I sipped my wine from the bottle. “I’ve been a blonde for two years.

It was fun for a while, but the upkeep is exhausting. ”

“What’s your natural color?” he asked, toeing off his sneakers.

“Murphy, you never ask a lady about her natural hair color.” I narrowed my eyes at him before setting the bottle on the counter beside the stove.

“It smells amazing in here,” he said, taking a few steps toward me then leaning his shoulder against the fridge.

I basted the steak with a spoon. “Butter, fresh garlic, and rosemary.”

He nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Are you married?”

I shut off the stove and transferred the steak to a cutting board. “Are you asking me this because I can cook? You think only wives can cook?”

“I think wives wear wedding bands on their left ring fingers.”

I looked at my hand and the emerald-cut diamond eternity band. “Oh, I found it.” I sliced the ribeye against the grain in half-inch strips. “Hope you like your steak medium-well.”

“That diamond band is quite the find.”

“I don’t have steak sauce, but you won’t need it. This baby can stand on its own.” I grinned, cutting the perfect bite and holding it toward his mouth.

Murphy retracted his head a few inches, eyeing my offering. “I don’t want to eat your dinner.”

“This isn’t my dinner.” I moved the bite until it touched his lips.

He opened his mouth and took it.

“Perfect, huh?” I grinned as he slowly chewed.

“It kind of is,” he mumbled, reaching past me to tear a paper towel from the roll to blot his lips.

“Wine?” I offered him the bottle.

“What’s going on? It’s a Wednesday. This isn’t your dinner. You’re offering me wine from the bottle you’ve been drinking from. And you have a ‘found’ diamond wedding band on your finger.”

I stared at him while picking up a strip of steak, bringing it close to my lips. “Are you a germaphobe? It’s cool if you are.”

“Are you married? It’s cool if you are,” he said, sliding his hands into his back jeans pockets.

I grinned before taking a swig of wine. Then I moved the band from my left hand to my right. “Better? And who says a diamond band has to be a wedding band?”

Murphy’s gaze remained on the ring, so I removed it and opened the cabinet, taking a wine glass out and setting the ring in the empty spot. After wiping my germs from the bottle, I filled his glass halfway. He stared at it, then shifted his focus to the cabinet where I left the ring.

“It’s sweet that you care,” I said, handing him the glass.

He accepted it and brought it to his lips. “What do you mean?”

I took another bite of steak and shrugged a shoulder while chewing. “You’re not the guy who has sex with another man’s wife.”

He choked, setting the glass on the counter while holding a fist to his mouth as he coughed. “W-Who said,” he coughed again, “anything about sex?”

“I know … I know.” I rubbed my forehead. “It’s risky with you so high on that pedestal. But despite your pitiful performance at cornhole, I think you have to be good in bed.”

His cheeks filled with a blush. “How much wine have you had?”

I made a pitiful attempt at hiding my grin, which should have been the answer to his question. “Tonight? Today? Or like ever?”

Murphy blinked with no discernible change in his expression, so I handed him the plate of steak and spun in the opposite direction, padding my way toward his collection of records.

“Are your hands clean?” he asked.

I smirked, wiping them on the front of my frayed denim shorts. “They are now.” I swapped out Ella for The Mamas and Papas, “Dream A Little Dream Of Me.”

Murphy plucked a strip of steak from the plate before setting it on the dining room table and descending the two steps into the living room.

“Do you happen to have an open slot on your dance card tonight?” I asked.

He shook his head, licking his buttery fingers. “Gentlemen don’t have dance cards. Women wear them around their wrists or attached to their formal gowns. So it is I who should ask you if your dance card is full.”

I flipped my wrist, looking at my imaginary dance card. “Nope. It’s empty because I step on toes. No one wants to dance with me.”

Murphy tried to suppress his grin while studying me. I didn’t want to be figured out, I just wanted him to dance with me.

He bent one arm behind his back while bowing and offering me his other hand. “May I have this dance?”

With my thumbs tucked into the front pockets of my shorts, I twisted my lips to the side for a few seconds.

“I suppose.” I rested my hand in his, and he jerked me into his body, making me gasp as one hand rested confidently on my lower back while his other clasped with mine a few inches from my face.

He led. I followed. Well, I tried.

“You are truly an awful dancer, Alice Yates.”

My two left feet didn’t keep him from swinging me around the living room, dodging the coffee table and sofa. As the song ended, I risked a quick glance up at him. His hazel eyes ensnared me.

The wine.

The music.

The embrace of a stranger with great hair and a killer smile.

It was the best escape.

The next song on the track brought us out of the moment, and whatever was or wasn’t about to happen, because the song was just flat-out weird.

I released his hand and covered my mouth to muffle my laughter. “What is this?”

He chuckled, stepping past me to turn off the music and slide the record back into its sleeve. “Who taught you to cook?”

“YouTube,” I said.

He looked over his shoulder. “Seriously?”

I nodded.

“Well, thanks for sharing your dinner with me.”

I shook my head. “I told you. It’s not my dinner.”

“You just what? Get a hankering for a steak at nine o’clock at night?”

“Something like that. You should take the rest with you. Crack some eggs in the morning. Put a little cream in your coffee.” I grabbed the plate and handed it to him. “Just return the plate or I’ll get fined.”

“I like my coffee black.”

I hesitated before returning a slow nod. “Okay. I’ll remember that.”

He scraped his teeth along his bottom lip. “I uh … thought we were going to have sex.”

My eyes widened. “Oh. Well, I mean?—”

A shit-eating grin engulfed his face as he brushed past me toward the back door. “Good night, Alice.”